


Breaking the mould

by jaqueline_nutweasel



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Dirty Talk, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 16:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9333914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqueline_nutweasel/pseuds/jaqueline_nutweasel
Summary: Jensen and MacReady come to terms. It's set somewhen before the mission in London, where they are much less hostile towards each other. This is what happened, this is why, and no one can convince me otherwise ;)"...Adam moves quietly up the stairs to the counter-terrorism division and takes a moment at the door to soak in the view of the empty room. He lets his gaze travel to where his desk is squatting lazily at the far end. Everybody knows it is his desk, because it is written on the flipchart next to it. Aug is here, it says, with a pointing arrow underneath. Fucking hilarious. In fact, he is hardly ever here, there always seems just enough time to drop stuff and leave again. But now, when the world is at last breathing calmly under night's soft blanket, he feels the need to tidy up and make himself comfortable..."





	

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to my [Starling Clementine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling) for the beta and all the tips and tricks. Without your constant friendly reminders, this thing would probably still rot away in my drawer of shame.

It is one of those nights where sleep doesn't come to him. In his mind thoughts crawl like insects, buzzing around his skull on tiny wings, a maddening itch he cannot scratch. Koller's voice rings clear above the rustling noise: “Usually people wake up with less augs. Not more.”

Never has a simple statement sounded more sinister...

There are whole months he remembers only as a dimension of foggy twilight, inhabited by moving shadows that seem to take shape in the corner of his eyes, but dissolve as soon as he tries to focus. And try as he might, they keep eluding him, leaving him groaning with frustration as he tosses and turns under his blankets. After a while he gives up on their pursuit - he always does - too afraid that following them would only lead to madness and despair.

With a sigh, Adam rolls over onto his back and stares into the blackness above. The blinds keep his bedroom firmly shielded from street lamps and moonlight, from the blazing neon ads and the faint twinkle of satellites. It is dark, like sleep, like unconsciousness, like his memories, and like in his memories, even darker shadows move around him, ghosts always out of focus. Their hands are wisps of cold fog against his skin that poke and prod his body, and he shudders as they finally reach inside him and squeeze. He can no longer breathe, his chest suddenly so tight it hurts. Gasping for air, he feels desperately for the light switch, his throat too constricted to utter a voice command. The small reading lamp on his bedside table flares to life and chases the shadows away from him, back into the corners of his bedroom. There they linger for a moment, hissing in anger, before they turn into familiars once again. The things he owns and recognizes. The panic retreats. The room falls silent. Adam listens to his own deep breaths, until his racing heart slows down. With a small groan he sits up and swings his legs out of bed.

  


...

  


Task Force 29s Headquarter is never completely deserted, but at this time of night it is run by a skeleton crew only, most of its agents, analysts and IT people have gone home to tend to their private lives or whatever ghosts thereof remain. Their absence gives the place a certain tranquillity, the kind that can only be found in spaces usually defined by the relentless buzzing of people. Now there is only the faint hiss of cameras turning steadily in their sockets and the coy hum of the ventilation system. For a few hours, it is a very different place.

Adam moves quietly up the stairs to the counter-terrorism division and takes a moment at the door to soak in the view of the empty room. He lets his gaze travel to where his desk is squatting lazily at the far end. Everybody knows it is his desk, because it is written on the flipchart next to it. _Aug is here_ , it says, with a pointing arrow underneath. Fucking hilarious. In fact, he is hardly ever here, there always seems just enough time to drop stuff and leave again. But now, when the world is at last breathing calmly under night's soft blanket, he feels the need to tidy up and make himself comfortable.

It doesn't take him long to sort out the trash. It takes him longer to finally turn over the flipchart; he has ignored it for so long, out of spite for a game that is played in school yards and boardrooms alike and he has hated with a passion since he was a little boy. But tonight he is tired of pretending. It is hard work, not being bothered, and even more work to appear like he's not. So he rips away the page, and the white paper that appears underneath comes as a relief. The words might be back tomorrow, but now there's at least a chance they will be kinder ones.

  


...

  


He is unaware of the pair of eyes watching him. They belong to another man who has made a habit out of working late hours. As leader of the counter-terrorism unit, he is never short of work. It's a good thing: idleness doesn't suit him well. MacReady stands leaning against the wall and takes full advantage of the fact, that looking out of his office is easier than looking in. He's watching Jensen take off his coat and start getting his workplace in order, putting a few items aside before throwing the rest in the bin with a sweep of his arm. His lips twitch at the sight but he cannot say if it is out of amusement or something else entirely. His dislike for Jensen is no secret, but lately he has been questioning his reasoning behind that feeling. It has shifted, like the feeling itself and he has the uncomfortable impression, that he isn't fully in control of it because he lacks its understanding.

He watches Jensen fiddle with the paper sheet, sees him finally take heart and tear it off, taking a step back afterwards to stare at the blank page underneath.

He seems different when he thinks himself alone and it makes MacReady feel like he is trespassing. At the same time, he has the familiar urge to go over and strike up an argument. To see Jensen flinch or clench his jaw in frustration. To punch a dent in that fucking armour, that Teflon coating where nothing seems to stick and catch a glimpse of the raw humanity behind. Nothing unsettles him more than the mask of calm indifference Jensen wears to work every day, and he needs to see it shatter from time to time to keep his own sanity.

Not long ago, he crossed a line. Got real close and personal. Lost his temper, you could say, but that had done the trick. Jensen winced under his words, face ashen and the sight had filled him with such a deep satisfaction, that he was appalled by himself.

But despite all the punches he threw at him, Jensen continued to drop by and strike up conversations; if that's mockery, challenge or just plain naivity, he could never tell...

When Jensen sits down, at ease with the empty room at his back, MacReady can't resist the pull any longer.

“If you're finally thinking about writing that report on the Dubai mission,” he says as he steps out of his office, “Don't bother.”

His reward is swift and sweet. Shoulders tense at the sound of his footsteps. Sleek black fingers twitch at the sound of his voice. It is something like an addiction to him, a thirst that becomes even more potent when it is quenched. He craves more with every little drop he is given.

Jensen turns around slowly in his chair, watching him approach from behind dark glasses. It makes him want to reach out and rip them right off his face.

“Hello to you too, MacReady,” Jensen says. “Something I can help you with?”

There is a strain in his voice that he isn't able to hide and Mac feels his lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. He pushes on. “Not anymore, you can't. I gave you fair warning and a deadline. It passed.”

He can see Jensen sigh more than actually hear it and it makes his smile widen. He sees it reflected in the black mirrors of Jensen's shades as he leans down, invading his personal space. It is thin and sharp as a razor, a predator's smile. “I told you I would write it myself if you can't be _bothered_. I also told you, that you wouldn't look good in it.”

There is no visible reaction, but he can tell that he has caught his agent off guard when no immediate answer is forthcoming.

“I've been kind of busy lately.” Jensen says finally.

There is something boiling underneath, and Mac will drag it into the light, kicking and screaming if he must.

“Oh, yes of course.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm. “Which is exactly why I lent a hand. Seeing that you were _busy,_ while I was basically just sitting around all day, twiddling my thumbs.” 

Something must have snapped. Jensen is staring at him and his voice is rising when he says: “Oh, come on MacReady. We both know you never pass up an opportunity to make me look bad. What the fuck did I ever do to you? I know you hate Augs after what has happened and I am sorry about your men, I truly am. But I am not the one who killed them. Whatever does it take to get you off my back?”

MacReady snorts. There it is again, that uncontrollable feeling that he gets whenever he looks at Jensen. Not rage, not hatred, yet a little bit of both and then some.

“You want to know what my biggest problem is?” he says, voice hard. He wants his words to hurt, so he aims them carefully. “It's not your bloody Augs. They may even be the most useful thing about you. No. My problem with you is that you're an insubordinate piece of shit. You lack any respect for authority and you blatantly ignore the chain of command. You clearly have some own agenda in all this, so you just do as you please, no matter what happens to the mission, to the rest of the team. It makes you a fucking liability, useless as a tool and if it was up to me I would have you decommissioned, downgraded and shipped off to Golem where you fucking belong.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth he knows he has gone too far. He doesn't even mean it, not really, not like that. But like last time, it has the desired effect. The mask crumbles and Jensen struggles to put it back together and find his voice again, a process MacReady watches with a hungry fascination and the familiar pang of guilt. When Jensen finally speaks, his voice is cold. “I'm sorry you feel that way. But you know what? Maybe it would help if you and Miller duked it out who gets to order me around. If you're nice to him, he might even let you have the weekends.”

With that, Jensen stands abruptly, now looking down at him, his mouth a hard line. But MacReady is not easily intimidated, not by his height, not by his augments, not by his fucking sunglasses. Jensen makes a move to reach for his coat, but MacReady puts a hand to his chest, stopping him dead.

“Where the fuck do you think you're going?”

“Away,” Jensen says, still cold as ice. “We're done here.”

But Mac isn't ready to let him go. He has been a soldier long enough to know when there is an opening to push through. If he lets this chance go to waste now, there might never be another.

“I will tell you when we're bloody done here,” he says. The tone of command comes easily, he does not even have to raise his voice. It fits him like a second skin and he never really sheds it completely, not even in private. He feels comfortable in it, in the straightforwardness and honesty of it all. Without room for ambiguities.

Mac feels warmth seep through the fabric of Jensen's sweater and his heart beating fast and angry underneath. He spreads his fingers, so that his palm rests flat against the firm chest and Jensen inhales sharply. Augmented digits close around his wrist and MacReady thinks that Jensen could crush it with a mere twitch of his fingers. The thought does not scare him. Part of him wants Jensen to do it. To lose control and prove him right but also as retribution for all the shit Mac keeps heaving upon him. He knows he's not fair.

“Come on,” he says quietly, but the challenge rings sharp in his voice. “Do it.”

Jensen stares at him, his grip tightens but nothing happens. So Mac pushes again, physically this time, putting his body's weight behind it and Jensen takes a few stumbling steps backwards until he bumps against the desk and has to use his free arm to prevent himself from loosing balance. The grip on Mac's wrist weakens, but he doesn't let go. They're so close, their chests are almost touching and Mac smells soap and wet autumn leaves on Jensen's skin. “Do it,” he says again, but it is clear now that Jensen is not going to fight him. He just stares at him from behind his glasses, dark mirrors that always show Mac nothing but himself.

“Take off those damn shades.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, but the commanding tone still cuts like a knife. Jensen exhales slowly and obeys. His shades retract and Mac realizes that this is the first time he can actually see Jensen's eyes. They are pleading with him but for what he is not sure. He just drinks in the sight before him like a man dying of thirst. This is so much better than the scraps of anger and resentment he usually manages to dig out of Jensen. And he will have more, much more now that he has driven him out of hiding.

He pushes again with his hand, but this time it's softer, more of a suggestion than an order. Jensen yields slowly, until he is lying flat on his back, staring up at him with wide eyes and half parted lips, his expression a mixture of confusion and yearning, that makes Mac's heart beat faster. His common sense tells him to stop this madness, but he has no desire to do so, least of all when Jensen parts his legs, inviting him to step between them. So he does. He looks down at Jensen, sprawled out over his own desk and leans over him, trailing a thumb across soft lips. A small smile spreads over his face. “So you are useful for something, after all.” he says mockingly. “I shouldn't be surprised that this is what it is. It's one of the last areas where you Augs are still in high demand, maybe you should consider a change of career.” Mac watches a deep blush creep up the sharp cheekbones. Jensen opens his mouth, no doubt to talk back to him, but Mac is having none of it. He uses it as an opportunity to slip two fingers inside the wet heat of Jensen's mouth and is rewarded with a muffled groan and warm lips closing obediently around them. He can't help but think of other places where they would feel positively amazing. He slowly pushes them in and pulls them out again, watching mesmerized how Jensen's eyes fall closed. Jensen makes a small noise in the back of his throat that wipes the last doubts from Mac's mind, body catching fire like a dry twig. He frees his other hand from the loose grip around his wrist and starts tugging impatiently at Jensen's sweater, his fingers sneaking underneath the fabric, curious of whatever they might find there. It is warm skin and he digs his fingers into it as he claims it inch by inch. Jensen makes another noise and his hand comes up and rests lightly at the back of Mac's neck, sending shivers down his spine. MacReady grips the slim hips with both of his hands and pulls the body towards him, so he can cover it with his own, reach everywhere he wants to. Long legs wrap around him in an encouraging gesture and it is then, when he can feel how hard both of them are, that he becomes aware of their surroundings again, the whole surreality of their situation. He stares down at Jensen, who still has his eyes closed and is gasping through half parted lips, his cheeks flush with colour. Mac thinks that no one has the right to look like that. Especially not a smug arsehole like Jensen.

_Not so smug now_ , he thinks. This time it is him who takes hold of Jensen's hands. They feel smooth, polished, almost like glass, but not cold, like he expected. He feels for the ridges and screws, the hidden mechanics, that would reassemble them into deadly weapons, as he pins them over Jensen's head. It is ridiculous, of course, but the fact that Jensen just submits to him makes all of this so much sweeter. He can barely believe how much he needs this. His whole body is tingling with excitement. So Mac just goes with it and starts rolling his hips and if he somehow thought Jensen to be the silent type, he is proven wrong as his agent turns out to be surprisingly vocal, grinding back against him with an almost feverish shine to his eyes. MacReady knows they need to take this somewhere else. He bends down until his lips almost touch Jensen's ear and whispers: “You look so good on your back like this. Such a needy, dirty little thing underneath all that shiny metal, aren't you, Agent?” Jensen just shudders and moans and Mac is pressing against him, his voice dropping to a menacing growl: “Aren't you, Agent? I don't like repeating myself.” There is a pause, a faltering in Jensen's whole being before he swallows and says: “Yes. Yes, Sir, I am.”

  


...

  


They stand in MacReady's office. The door is locked and the blinds are down, creating a secret space for them but Adam knows it's an illusion. There are no secrets in a place like this, at least not for very long. Still, he is thankful they only had to move those few steps it took them to get through the door and lock it. It leaves him no time to think, no time to change his mind, no time for awkwardness to sink in. He wonders briefly if he will still have a future at TF29 after this, or if he's jeopardizing his career, his whole greater mission by getting cosy with his superior. But when Mac steps behind him, his warm hands sneaking under his sweater again to stroke his flanks and stomach, he decides he doesn't really care. He wants this, has wanted it for a while now, finally owning up to the fact that he seems to have a type: the grumpy ones, the tough no-bullshit-people that make him fight hard for their affection, those are the ones he is inevitably drawn to, like a moth to a flame. It holds true for every man and woman he has ever dated.

Mac's hands slide up his chest, push up sweater and the shirt he wears underneath and he lifts his arms, allowing them to pull the fabric over his head. He hears it land on the floor behind him with a soft thud. Mac inhales sharply and Adam can feel his eyes on him, heavy like his hands before. He shivers under their touch. Rough fingers trace the bolt ports on his back, glide over the clamps on his shoulders and down his artificial arms. He tries to keep his breathing steady and calm as they make their way to the front of his pants to open them, but he is no match for Mac's clever fingers. A low chuckle in his ear makes him gasp. “Look at you,” Mac whispers. “Wetter than a schoolgirl on Prom night.”

Adam is well past the point of embarrassment. It is almost ridiculous how turned on he is. So he just nods, writhing against Mac's body behind him and MacReady takes this as cue to push Adam's trousers down. They pool around his ankles until he manages to kick his boots off. It leaves him with nothing but his underpants, aroused and shivering and a bit nervous. The warm body behind him vanishes as MacReady circles him to look at him from the front. He is still fully dressed. Adam can't help but feel a little disappointed, but such is the nature of the game they play right now and it is exciting how self conscious and vulnerable it makes him feel.

Mac's eyes roam over his body, augmented limb to augmented limb. They are an earthy brown, and he wants so desperately to know what it is they see, he wants to grab Mac by the shoulders and shake the answer out of him. But he bites his tongue and keeps his place. After what seems an eternity, MacReady shakes his head in disbelief and steps towards him again. “They really did a number on you, mate,” he says quietly. “I've read the files, I know what you're packing. But reality is quite a different beast.” His right hand comes up and trails along Adam's chest, where the bolts of the reinforcing bar are embedded in his skin. “Hell alone knows how you survived all this...” His voice is trailing off but when he clears his throat, the commanding tone is back. He smiles a thin smile before he says: “Well now, Agent. Drop your pants or get the fuck out of my office.”

  


…

  


The polished surface of the desk is cool against his bare back. Sweat is pooling at the base of his spine. His legs are draped over MacReady's shoulders who is looking down on him, brow furrowed as he works him open with two fingers, stroking and stretching and Adam bites his lips in an attempt to keep quiet. He is pretty sure that his own fingers will leave marks on the edges of the desk where he holds on to it and he tries in vain to loosen his grip. Once unleashed, his want is a powerful thing, unreasonable and selfish, short-sighted and uncompromising, that's why he keeps it locked away, denying, always denying, until he forgets that it even exists. For he who wants nothing, lacks nothing. Focus on the mission. Be the weapon to see it through. 

But sooner or later, his humanity always catches up with him...

MacReady coaxes sounds out of him, he didn't even know his throat still remembers. He's already coming loose under his touch, dedicated to find all his secret spots that make him arch his back and cry out in pleasure. Mac watches his reactions with a look of hungry concentration on his face and for once it feels good to be at the centre of so much attention. Every sigh and moan, every twitch of his muscles stokes the fire in Mac's eyes, so Adam gives it generously. He lets himself be taken apart piece by piece, baring everything and it has him writhing, pushing back against those fingers as much as his position allows, which isn't much at all and he groans helplessly. A sly smile spreads over Mac's face and Adam wonders if he will make him beg for it. The thought alone rips another moan from his lips. He knows he would do it, without hesitation. Beg to be fucked right here in Mac's office, spread open on top of his desk. And Mac seems to read him like a book because he says: “If you want it, Jensen, you're gonna have to ask for it.” Adam curses softly under his breath and stares into the dark pools in the face above him. “Please.” he says, fully aware of how needy he sounds. “Please, please, please, fuck me. Sir.” MacReady's eyes are ablaze. His hands are gripping Adam's hips hard enough to bruise as he arranges himself and pushes inside. All Adam manages is a hoarse cry. He let's that polished British accent wash over him like a caress, telling him how tight he is and how good he feels. Little obscenities that make him even harder, even if he didn't think it possible. MacReady pauses when he is fully inside him and Adam wants to curse him for his self-control. But Mac is a soldier, and he always carries himself like one. With a straight back and proud shoulders, and a gait that leaves no room for doubts. It's only natural that he fucks like that, too. The smile he gives Adam is one of pure mischief before he starts moving. Each thrust of his hips is hard and precise. He hits exactly where Adam wants him to and he can feel himself unravel so quickly, it makes him see stars. Little pleas keep tumbling from his lips as he is drawing ever closer to the edge, reduced to nothing but a bundle of quivering nerves. Warm and strong fingers wrap around his leaking cock and it doesn't take more than a few strokes to make him fall apart completely. Mac fucks him all through his orgasm before he falters and cums too.

  


…

  


It's just their breathing that fills the air afterwards. It's too early for words, when they start to untangle themselves from each other and Adam's mind is still fragmented and dull with bliss. But questions and concerns rise again from the back of his head and so once he has caught his breath, he gets up and starts picking up his clothes from the floor to avoid them for a little longer. But with every piece he puts back on, they keep pressing in, and he cannot avoid MacReadys gaze forever. He braces himself as he turns around to face it.

Mac is watching him with an expression that he cannot place, but it is different from the look he usually wears.

“So,” he says almost pleasantly as the silence stretches on. “You actually do know how to follow orders. What a surprise.”

“Yeah...” Adam says, unsure in which direction this is going. “Don't tell anyone. I mean… you're not going to tell anyone, are you? About this?”

MacReady chuckles. “I'm pretty sure, I don't need to. Should've told me that you're a screamer.”

Adam can feel the colour draining from his face. “Oh God...”

MacReady just starts laughing. “Don't worry, pet. It suits you. Now, I don't know about you, but I need a drink. So let's get out of here and continue this… conversation somewhere else, what do you say?” He doesn't even try to hide the lewdness in his voice and Adam shakes his head a little exasperated. “Jesus, Mac, you really broke the mould when they made you, didn't you?”

“Told you. So? What's it gonna be?”

He doesn't really need to think long. He has no desire at all to go home and face his nightmares alone. “Any chance I'll get to see you naked, too?”

Mac is smiling his razor smile again. “So you'd like that, wouldn't you? Well, I'm sure that can be arranged. If you ask nicely.”

Adam swallows. “I can do that, Sir.”

  



End file.
